


kiss me now (and i'll never fool you again)

by kay_emm_gee



Series: the kids aren't alright (The 100 tumblr prompts) [71]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Engagement, Exes, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke looked across the ER and felt like she was going to throw up. Bellamy Blake was back in town. </p>
<p>Immediately she pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the familiar shape of the one of the two things she had left of him hidden under her scrubs. After taking a deep breath, she tried to walk forward, to step into the ER, but her feet wouldn’t move. Instead she paged Anya, telling her she was sick and she needed to bring in the on-call resident. Too tired to go home, Clarke curled up in one of the on-call room bunks, trying very hard to convince herself that Bellamy was only back for the holidays and would be gone again by New Years, so there was no sense in giving herself any semblance of hope.</p>
<p>She was the one who had broken up with him last Christmas, after all.</p>
<p>{ Prompt: A modern Bellarke AU songfic based off of 'Last Christmas'? With lots of angst and a happy ending? }</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me now (and i'll never fool you again)

Clarke looked across the ER and felt like she was going to throw up.

That wasn’t an uncommon sensation in the Mt. Weather Memorial emergency room, especially around this time of year. Icy roads, the need to hang holiday lights, and poorly designed non-ergonomic snow shovels brought some pretty nasty injuries into the hospital. As an intern, Clarke had probably spent equal time cleaning up vomit from patients or their loved ones as she had actually practicing medicine. Never, though, had she been the one who was fighting nausea. Until now, when she was staring across the room, eyes locked on the very familiar figure filling out paperwork at the reception desk.

Bellamy Blake was back in town. Her heart stuttered with worry as she watched him saunter over to a hospital bed, but relief washed through her when she realized he wasn’t the one injured. Octavia was, face scrunched up as she got her shoulder examined. For a moment, Clarke felt like laughing, surprised as she was that Bellamy wasn’t reaming out either his sister or the nursing staff. It seemed in the last year he had reigned in some of that famous Blake sibling protectiveness.

Immediately she pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the familiar shape of the one of the two things she had left of him hidden under her scrubs. After taking a deep breath, she tried to walk forward, to step into the ER, but her feet wouldn’t move. Instead she paged Anya, telling her she was sick and she needed to bring in the on-call resident. Too tired to go home, Clarke curled up in one of the on-call room bunks, trying very hard to convince herself that Bellamy was only back for the holidays and would be gone again by New Years, so there was no sense in giving herself any semblance of hope.

She was the one who had broken up with him last Christmas, after all. A year later, and he had a new job in a new city, and probably a new somebody who loved him.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she cursed the multi-colored string of lights illuminating the otherwise dark room, wondering how in the hell she was going to get through the holiday season without the one person who she had long ago but too that realized mattered to her most.

* * *

Tugging up the low-cut collar of her beaded cranberry dress, Clarke sighed. It was going to be a long night, dodging pretentious asshole lawyers hitting on her, but getting to surprise Wells at his family’s company holiday party was worth it to her. Still, as the collar inched down again, she frowned.

“I should’ve worn the black one.”

From the driver’s seat, her mother made a dissenting noise. “You look beautiful.”

Clarke shrugged. “I’d rather be comfortable.”

“We won’t stay long.”

Clarke suppressed a snort, because long meant different things to her and her mother. It had been easier when she and Wells were younger; they could sneak off into a corner or somewhere outside, playing when they were kids and sneaking booze when they were teens. Now that they were adults–though Clarke wasn’t sure they were qualified to be called that sometimes–and Wells was officially an associate of Jaha & Kane, they couldn’t hide away anymore.

Her mother reassured her three more times that it would be a short night by the time they had entered the glittering function hall, handing their coats off to a sullen attendant.

“I’m going to find Wells,” Clarke announced, knowing soon enough her mother would be ensconced in conversation with potential donors for the hospital. Abby Griffin was relentless, even at a function for friends. Clarke had nearly smacked Anya when she told her _like mother, like daughter_ her intern year, though Clarke had grudgingly agreed after her classmates had laughed along.

When she finally spotted her best friend across the room, engaged in a lively conversation with some of his fellow associates, Clarke made a beeline for him. So focused on making her way through the crowd, she accidentally clipped someone’s elbow with her arm. She heard a slosh, and ice clattering to the floor, and a low, rumbling _shit._

“I’m so sorry–” she began, but the words stuck in her throat when the man spun around.

“Bellamy?” She breathed. “What are you doing here?”

His head snapped up and his hand, which had been brushing drink off, froze on his jacket.

“Hey,” he rasped. Then his eyes flicked over her, narrowing in on her neck. She resisted the urge to cover the small crown charm there, his birthday gift to her two years ago. As her cheeks reddened, she at least felt consoled her other necklace–the one she let nobody else see–was at home, because her dress had been too revealing to hide it.

She realized he hadn’t said anything else, hasn’t answered her question, and she shifted uncomfortably. “So you’re back in town for the holidays?” She offered weakly, desperate to stop drowning in the awkward silence.

His eyebrows furrowed briefly, the way they did when he was trying to solve crosswords, but then his expression shuttered. “Uh, not exactly.”

Clarke waited, but he didn’t elaborate. It wasn’t until another of the associates called for him– _we need a tiebreaker, Blake!_ –that her question was answered.

“You work here?”

His eyes widened at the shock in her tone. “Wells didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Oh. I thought he would’ve.”

Bellamy didn’t say anything else, and she was too flustered– _he was back, he was here, he was home and home for good_ –to stop him from apologetically excusing himself to answer his coworker’s slightly tipsy request. She watched him walk away, shoulders slightly raised, as if warding off her presence. Her hand went to her chest, and a lump formed in her throat when there was nothing there to hold onto, nothing there to remind how close to perfect they had once been.

A slight squeeze to her elbow startled her back to the present.

“I should have told you,” Wells sighed unhappily.

“Yes,” Clarke stuttered. “You should’ve. You _hired_ him?”

“My father wanted him. Bellamy had made a name for himself even before leaving, but in the last year, he’s become a superstar lawyer. And he does a lot of pro bono work. Dad thought he’d bring in good publicity for the company.”

“All about the pretty picture,” Clarke scoffed, flicking an annoyed glance at her best friend.

“But _I,”_ Wells continued pointedly, “just think he’s one of the best and someone who I’d work well with in the future.”

“Wait, you mean?”

“Dad has to hand over the business someday. And I’ll need a partner. Bellamy was looking to come back to the area, missing Octavia got to him I think. As soon as I heard Sydney & Shumway were trying to rehire him, I called him, offered him a position, let him know how much we wanted him.”

Clarke’s stomach jumped in excitement and pride, because she had always known Bellamy would succeed, even when long hours and lost cases and shitty senior associates tried to convince him otherwise. For Wells to want him as a future firm partner would mean everything to him, and everything to her too.

“You okay with that?” Wells asked carefully. “I did want to tell you, I really did. I just couldn’t figure out how.”

“I don’t like surprises,” she replied tiredly. “But it would’ve been hard either way.”

“If it’s going to be too hard–”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, even mustering up a faint smile. “I’m the one who broke it off, remember? I’m fine.”

Wells looked like he really wanted to argue with her, to tell her yet again that mistakes are fixable if she would only _pick up the damn phone and call him,_ but she knew it was too late. A year had passed. They were too far gone; she would just keep her consolation prize around her neck, concealed under clothing. It would have to be enough.

“He asked about you, you know.”

“Wells.”

“Not like that,” he said hastily, guiltily. “Just–if you were okay, if you were okay with him working with me.”

“So I guess whatever white lie you told him can be true now, okay? Because really I’m–I’ll be okay with it. I promise.”

Wells sighed dubiously. “He really was what the firm needed, Clarke. I’m sorry.”

“It’s a big town, Wells. I’m sure I’ll never see him.” She hooked an arm through his and tried not to let Bellamy’s broad frame catch her eye as she turned. “Now, I need a drink. Possibly two.”

“I’m all for double fisting,” Wells agreed with a grin.

“Bet I can pawn more free shots off the bartender with the kickass braids. She was eyeing me earlier, after all.”

“It’s an open bar, Clarke.”

“You’re just afraid you’re going to lose.”

“You’re taking me out to dinner when I win.”

“Deal.”

* * *

When Clarke stumbled back into her apartment that night, she kicked off her heels immediately, wincing as her feet adjusted to walking flat again. They throbbed as she padded into her room, stripping out of her holiday dress as she went. Her head started to throb more, though, as she sat down on the bed, because she had won the bet with Wells. Though she’d enjoy her free dinner, she knew she was not going to enjoy her hangover tomorrow morning.

A glint in the dark caught her eye. Staring dully down at her nightstand, she allowed her gaze to fixate on the piece of jewelry lying there: a simple white gold band set with a large square diamond strung onto a simple long chain. Her chest tightened at the sight. When she reached out and squeezed the ring in her fist, she let the soft curve of the band and the sharp points of the stone press into her palm, stark reminders of the pleasure and pain of keeping the memento around.

She had discovered it three weeks before Christmas last year, stuffed in the back of Bellamy’s sock drawer. Originally she had been looking for their apartment’s spare key to loan out to Monty but had found the tiny black velvet box instead. Her eyes had welled up with happy tears upon finding the ring, but panic, disappointment, and hurt had filled her gut when she also found the receipt dated six months prior. Six months Bellamy had had the ring, and for six months it had sat in the back of his drawer untouched. For days she had tried to ignore it, tried to convince herself that he had a grand plan, one that required waiting. In those same days, however, Clarke remembered their fights during those six months, the bad ones, the worst one where she had moved out for a week and he didn’t speak to her for two. Six months, and somewhere in that time, Bellamy had decided to leave the box where it was, hidden, like a bomb that hadn’t been set but was bound to go off at some point.

Another week later, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. Overrun with self-doubt and stubborn pride, she had detonated what they could have been herself, picking fights and ignoring his increasingly confused and angry tries to fix whatever had gone wrong. A month went by, and then she was packing up her things for good, crying and confused and full of regret but too proud to turn back. Her last transgression had been to take the ring with her, unbeknownst to him. He’d probably think he had misplaced it; it wasn’t like he was using it, now was he? He wouldn’t know the wiser, and she’d have something to remind her that waiting never led to anything good.

In her dark, cold bedroom now, though, she realized how foolish she had been. All this time, despite her best efforts to move on, all she had been doing was waiting: waiting for him to call, for him to come back, for him to ask _please can we try again?_

He was back, but he wasn’t going to call. He wasn’t going to ask for another try. He wasn’t hers to wait for anymore.

She had the ring, though, even if it was taken, not given.

So with an unsteady breath, she put the chain over her head, sighing when the cold press of the ring settled lightly against her chest.

It was her weight to bear, after all, and she would do it, just to be able to hold onto the little last part of them that remained. She fell asleep holding it, something she hadn’t done in a while, but it soothed her aching heart all the same.

_I’ll be okay_ , she told herself, hoping that her words would hold even with Bellamy in her orbit again.

* * *

It took Clarke a few days to recover from the hangover and onslaught of returning emotions. When she had, she joined her fellow residents at their favorite dive bar, The Factory, two blocks down from the hospital, for drinks after a particularly long Friday shift. They had opted for darts instead of trivia, until Raven had nearly put out someone’s eye, and they then retreated instead to a high top in the middle of the bar. Miller was half-watching a basketball game while Maya argued with Monty and Raven about new hospital policies.

“Is that…” Raven trailed off suddenly, eyeing someone over Clarke’s shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” Miller muttered, then took a large sip of his beer, also glancing behind her.

Clarke turned without thought, and her stomach dropped when she recognized Bellamy, who was walking up to the bar, gesturing to the large bald tattooed bartender for drinks.

“Seriously?” She huffed, feeling her cheeks flush. The universe was finally taking revenge on her for stealing the ring, she supposed. She had wanted a reminder of them, after all; now she was getting all the wrong kinds, especially with him looking so good tonight, hair ruffled to just the right degree of messy, a tired smile on his face, snow dotting the jacket that fit his broad shoulders so well.

“He’s back in town?” Raven hissed, swatting her arm.

Clarke flashed her a weak smile that was more of a grimace. “He’s working with Jaha.”

“Senior?”

“Junior.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and Clarke almost laughed because the indignation on her friend’s face told her Wells would be getting a very interesting phone call from his _not_ -girlfriend (Raven’s words, not his) later that night. Shrugging, Clarke picked up her glass and pressed it casually to her face, trying to calm her flustered reaction. So Bellamy was here, in her bar. _A_ bar, she mentally corrected. Just because this was where all the residents usually congregated after work didn’t mean it was hers, or theirs, or anybody’s.

“Do I want to know what’s going on here?” Maya asked quietly. She had been a recent transfer and thus had missed Clarke’s spectacular destruction of her relationship with Bellamy.

Monty shook his head, and Raven stared pointedly, mutinously at her drink. Miller, however, without taking his eyes off the television, said, “Clarke broke up with her boyfriend because she was too much stupid in love with him, and, because he was too much stupid in love with her, he let her do it.”

“Thanks, really, for that very insightful explanation,” Clarke deadpanned. “You’re so helpful. I feel so supported and loved.”

Miller just flipped her off, but he grinned at the same time. In retaliation, Clarke gleefully flicked some of her glass’s condensation at him, causing him to scowl at her. He chucked a napkin, she tossed an ice cube, and then when he tried to launch a beer-filled straw at her, she shrieked, garnering more attention than she had bargained for.

As she dropped her hands shielding her face from her friend’s attack, still laughing, she locked eyes with the last person she wanted to. Bellamy paused, as if debating, then stiffly tipped his head up in recognition. She flexed a smile at him in response, but then he turned again, away from her. Swallowing tightly, Clarke clutched at her drink, resisting the urge to knock it back in one.

_You deserve this, deserve this, deserve this_ chanted cruelly, punishingly in her head as her friends not very subtly tried to change the subject.

* * *

That night wasn’t the last time she saw Bellamy at The Factory. As she learned from careful side-glances and subtle eavesdropping, he knew one of the bar’s owners, Lincoln, who turned out to be Octavia’s boyfriend. Clarke felt lucky that she hadn’t run into the young Blake here yet; she wasn’t sure if Octavia would hit her or just throw beer on her for breaking her brother’s heart.

She and Bellamy generally managed to avoid each other over the next two weeks when they were both there. He stayed by the bar counter, and she lurked in the corners with her friends, at least until they turned traitor.

“You need to buy a round, Clarke,” Raven insisted, trying to tip her chair with her good leg. “Up you go. Scoot, scoot.”

“I’ve bought rounds!” Clarke protested, though she found herself standing despite her best efforts to stay in her chair. “I just bought a round on Tuesday!”

“You _buy_ them, you just don’t go _get_ them.”

“Ra-ven.”

“Cla-arke.”

“Please don’t make me.”

Raven rolled her eyes. “You’re both adults. You’re going to see him again sooner or later. Might as well use your current inebriated state and start forging through that awkwardness now.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m a genius. Now like I said: scoot, scoot.”

Clarke obeyed reluctantly, managing to stumble to the bar and then stumble her way through a very awkward, very shallow exchange with Bellamy. She saw him a few more times at The Factory after that–the bar was close to his office, she found out–and though the awkwardness lessened with each interaction, the very carefully constructed parameters of what they did or did not chat about stayed the same.

It wasn’t until the week before Christmas and she was one drink past tipsy, left alone by Miller who had grinned like a sap and ghosted after Monty had Snapchatted him a pic of him in reindeer antlers in their decorated apartment, that Bellamy, also flushed red from drinking, slid into the stool across from her and started speaking more than just pleasantries.

“You’re here a lot,” he commented, sliding his empty glass between his hands.

For a moment, she was mesmerized by the motion, focusing on how he caught the glass so easily, thick fingers wrapping around it with finesse. “It’s our bar.”

“Your bar?” He asked in amusement.

She blushed, pursing her lips. “That’s just what the other residents call it.”

“So am I infringing on your territory?”

Clarke snapped her gaze up to his face, which was mostly lighthearted, but knowing him so well, even after a year apart, she could read the challenge in his eyes.

“No,” she responded simply. She took a sip of her drink, watching her watch him. He drummed his fingers on the table, as if waiting for her to say more. She didn’t. Some ridiculous decades-old movie blared in the background, too loud now that the bar had largely cleared out, its customers off to find a new adventure or a warm bed. It wasn’t until Bellamy leaned back in his seat sighing, almost defeatedly, that she realized she did have more to say.

“You’re here a lot too,” she blurted.

He paused, flicking his eyes from the screen to her. Cocking his head, he propped his elbows on the high top, folding his hands around his glass again. “I am here a lot.”

“So am I.”

“So we’ve established.”

Clarke resisted the urge to glare at him, because he had his court room face on, the one where he knew what game he was playing, knew what the end result would be, and was taking satisfaction in his opponent not knowing either of those things.

Without thinking, her hand reached up to press against the ring dangling under her shirt, nestled out of sight in her cleavage. His eyes flicked downwards, flashing with something familiar–want–as they followed her movements, but then he was looking her in the eye again, impassive as ever.

“Bellamy,” she warned, more for herself than him.

He closed his eyes briefly, heeding her. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll just–go.”

When he shrugged on his coat and stood, though, her hand shot out, catching his. Turning in surprise, he stared down at her, leaning closer, and closer, as she twined their fingers together.

“Stay.”

“Clarke.” This time her name was the warning.

“I mean it,” she murmured, standing and reaching for her jacket. “I mean it, I promise.”

Waveringly, she inched closer, rising up slowly on the balls of her feet until her mouth was a hair away from his. With care and hesitation, she closed the distance, giving him a brief, gentle, chaste kiss, warm and light and full of opportunity that only he could take.

Bellamy swore under his breath and then his hands were cupping her face firmly, tipping her head back as he kissed her with just _more_ , all passion and fire and pent-up longing. She whimpered, feeling her hands scramble for purchase on his jacket, to just pull him closer, feel his frame pressed up against hers. He knew her still so well, one hand sliding down to press low on her back to arch her into him at just the right angle, the other fisting into her hair.

“Shit,” he drawled as he pulled in a much-needed breath, but before more profanities could escape, Clarke claimed his mouth again, eager to make up for lost time.

“What are we doing?” He managed to ask as they stumbled out of the bar, still all tangled up in each other.

“Whatever the hell we want.”

He growled against her neck, biting at her collarbone. She gasped in response, shimmying a little bit in anticipation. He hailed a taxi in no time, and in the dim backseat, his hands ghosted up her jean-clad thighs, hers sneaking under his shirt. She couldn’t resist, and neither could he, the exploration of old territory, the satisfaction in realizing they still knew how to make each other blush and sigh and whimper and want.

When they reached the door to his apartment, Bellamy laughed into her ear while he unlocked it.

“What?” She asked amusedly as they shucked off their coats and boots in the entryway.

“Nothing,” he muttered with a shrug before clutching her hips and dragging her close. “Just–I never expected…”

Clarke felt her pulse jump at his words, the old regret and shame washing through her. Wanting it all to go away, for both of them, she did what she had in the bar: slowed it down. Again, she rose on her toes, brushing a feather-light kiss of reassurance against the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I’m here now. So what are you going to do about it?”

Immediately he backed her into the nearest wall, caging her in with his strong arms and comforting heat. His knee nudged her thighs apart as he drew closer, fingers playing with the waistband of her jeans. As heat pooled in her gut and he skimmed his lips over her shoulder, she closed her eyes, giving herself over to the sensation of having Bellamy so close. His mouth teased, grazing over skin, kisses growing more insistent as her hands tugged at his shirt. Off it went, and he smirked as she couldn’t stop staring at his bare chest, which was incredible as always.

“Shut up,” she grumbled, pushing him away. He laughed as he caught her wrists, and they tussled until her arms were crossed over her head and his hands were lifting the hem of her shirt. Anticipation unfurled in her chest, as well as gratification, because she heard his intake of breath. Suddenly she was glad she had worn her best black bra, because plain as it was, she knew it did things, amazing things, for her chest, and Bellamy had always _loved_ her breasts.

As expected, he was staring at her chest, but her forming smile faded when she realized he was looking down with shock and hurt in his eyes.

Bellamy reached out one finger, sliding it under the ring dangling down into her cleavage. Lifting it up, he rubbed his thumb over the band, not able to take his eyes off of it. Her throat closed up and she knocked her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ of her to forget about it.

“You had it?”

The harshness of his tone made her tense. The ring suddenly dropped back against her skin, warm from his fingertips. Slowly she exhaled, not enjoying the chilly draft grazing her bare stomach now that Bellamy had stepped away from her. When she cracked her eyes open, he was looking at her in frustration and a little bit of anger. Panic gripped her, and she folded her arms over her chest, curling in on herself.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, brushing by him as she reached for her shirt on the ground. The urge to run was overwhelming, blotting out her conscience’s warning not to repeat past mistakes.

As she held it against her chest, he demanded, “That’s it? You’re sorry? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What do you want me to say?” She snapped, twisting around to grab her shoes.

He cut in front of her, forcing her to straighten. She refused to look at him though, instead glaring at the ground.

“A year later, and you’re wearing my fucking _ring_ around your _neck_ , Clarke. Which I thought I had lost, or Octavia had hid from me. You’re still wearing it after you broke up with me, for no reason other than–hell, I still don’t know why you cut and run!”

“I don’t know either!” She exploded, gaze snapping up to his furious one. “I don’t know, Bellamy, and I wish I did–”

“Bullshit, you do know–”

“You really want to know?” Clarke shouted, pissed that tears were welling up in her eyes. “You really do? I found it, Bellamy. In your drawer, along with the receipt and purchase date. Six months you had that ring, and you never–you weren’t going to use it, Bell. I knew you weren’t, and I couldn’t stay with someone who didn’t want me as much as I wanted them!”

Disbelief flooded Bellamy’s face, and Clarke dug her fingers into her sides, anchoring herself against his reaction.

“So you got scared and ran,” he said dully.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she rasped. “I fucked up, and I hurt you, and I’m so sorry, Bell. I’m so sorry.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face, then clasped them both behind his head. She watched him, all the tired lines on his forehead, the wary set to his shoulders, his chest expanding with intentionally slowed breaths, as if he was trying to hold himself together as well.

“I was scared too, you know,” he murmured finally. “I kept making plans, to propose, but then Octavia was moving home, and then you were thinking of taking on a new specialty, and then I was maybe going to be transferred. It just–the timing was never right, and then I wondered if it would ever be right for us–”

Clarke shifted backwards, away from him, terrified that she had been right a year ago. That she had been right to run, to leave before she was left. As if sensing her retreat, his eyes flew open, and he sighed.

“I got scared,” he repeated slowly, letting his arms fall to his sides. “But I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. Never–have.”

Her breath hitched at his admission, and the way he clenched his jaw afterwards told her it had slipped out unintentionally. As always, her hand flew up to the ring, fingers curling around it without thought, her safety net even now.

“I’ve worn it since the day I left,” she whispered, staring at him unflinchingly. “And I never–I never stopped…”

He shifted closer, hands hovering over her hips. “You never what?”

“Loving you, Bell. I never stopped loving you.”

Then she launched herself at him, tired of being slow, of being careful, of running in the wrong direction. Her arms latched around his neck, and his locked around her middle, arching her into him as she kissed him with an open mouth and an open heart.

He groaned as she ran her hands everywhere, slipping her tongue into his mouth, tasting the lingering flavor of gin and mint from the bar. When he lifted her up, she let out a watery laugh, dropping kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his neck as he walked them into the bedroom. Right after she was dropped onto the bed, he followed, and she mewled as his hot, heavy weight pressed her into the mattress.

“Fuck,” he muttered into the crook of her neck as she palmed him through his jeans, rocking into her touch.

“Yes, let’s,” she teased, though her giggle turned into a gasp when he bent down and nipped her breast just above the cup of her bra. Soon enough fabric wasn’t covering her chest but his hands, his rough palms and fingers eagerly teasing her nipples.

When his mouth replaced his hands, and she whimpered from the wet heat and suction, she fumbled with the button and zipper of his pants, using all of her limbs to shuck his jeans and boxers off. As he pressed kisses down her stomach, she arched up, pulse stuttering at the insistent way his thumbs dug into the divots below her hips. He stripped her bare too, then surged back up, claiming her mouth in a deep kiss as his fingers slipped into her wet folds.

Bellamy swore again, and she bit his lower lip, reveling in the sensation of his fingers teasing her flesh, circling over her clit, down and around and back up again. She moaned his name when he finally slid a finger, then two inside of her, coaxing and pumping her into a frenzy. Heat coiled in her belly, and pressure gathered even lower, egged on by his thumb rubbing against her clit. Her hips rocked in time with his motions, and she felt him smile into her shoulder.

“That’s it,” he murmured hotly against her skin. “C’mon, Clarke.”

With a few more demanding strokes, he had her keening his name as she shattered. Bellamy cut off her cry with another kiss as he eased her down from her high, only slipping his fingers out when her walls had stopped fluttering around them.

“More,” she breathed as he licked her lingering wetness off his digits. She scooted up to reach for his nightstand, knowing well enough that there would be condoms in the drawer. She wasn’t disappointed, and she fumbled with the package as he yanked her back down, grinning over her. Bellamy jerked as she rolled the protection on, and then she was smiling too, running her hands over his hard length.

“More,” he echoed, half-smug, half-desperate. He adjusted his hips, and she helped guide him between her legs, and then he was pushing into her slickness. She gasped as her walls pleasantly stretched to accommodate him, and soon enough he was stroking in and out, hips snapping as they chased their high together.

She tumbled over the edge first, clasping him tighter, and her name fell from his lips over and over as he followed, pulsing into her with uneven thrusts. When he collapsed onto her, trapping sweat and musk and warmth between them, Clarke sighed, absently running her fingertips up and down his back. They lay there for a minute, letting the haze clear as their pulses slowed and their breathing evened out.

Eventually, Bellamy rolled off and disposed of the condom. Her thoughts raced as he came back to the bed, huffing as he fell back into place beside her. As she turned towards him, she felt a tug on her neck. Swallowing, she realized the necklace with the ring had been thrown back, the chain rubbing against her skin like a choker. Her gaze flicked to Bellamy’s face, unease and doubt beginning to fester as she realized his eyes were locked on it.

“You really wore it all this time?” He murmured, reaching out to ease the necklace back into place. He caught the ring before it fell onto the bed, slipping it down his index finger.

Embarrassed, all she could do was nod and press her face into the pillow immediately afterwards.

“Hey.” Arms came around her, tugging her into him. “Look at me.”

Clarke peaked an eye out, looking up at his serious face.

He said her name in admonishment, and she sighed, wiggling back out so she could see him entirely.

“You wore it the whole time,” he repeated, though it was a statement, not a question.

“Never stopped,” she affirmed, fingers skimming over his chest to rest above his heart.

Exhaling, he closed his eyes and knocked his forehead against hers. “No more running, then.”

“No more running.”

Bellamy kissed her gently, sealing the promise. And she kept it, falling asleep in his embrace and waking up pressed even closer to him, the ring lodged in between his chest and her shoulder. Peeking out from between them, it glinted in the morning sunlight.

“I’m going to need it back, you know,” he rasped, voice low and rough from sleep. “I never did ask you, after all.”

She smiled, tracing lazy circles on his stomach. “Finders keepers.”

Bellamy chuckled, then firmly rolled her on top of him. With her hands busy supporting herself, she couldn’t stop him as he reached up and unclasped the necklace. His fist closed around the ring, then tucked it under his pillow before reaching down to grasp her sides.

“We should at least try and do it right this time around,” he argued with a grin.

Clarke leaned down, propping her chin on her folded arms as she looked up at him, contented. “I do believe in second chances.”

His thumbs stroked her ribs, and she smiled softly at him.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I think we deserve one.”

Clarke nodded in agreement, more than ready for their new start.

This time Bellamy only waited six weeks to propose. Clarke wore the ring on her finger instead of around her neck but still never took it off, grinning every time the flash of it caught her eye.

She had learned her lesson. It was better to have things out in the open after all, and even though they might deserve all the chances in the world, she wasn’t going to waste any more time running or waiting.

Their second chance was looking brighter already.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


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